


But Do You See Me?

by LUCKYWARRIORS (voidpacifist)



Category: Waterparks (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cerebral Palsy, How Do I Tag, M/M, it's very gay, uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidpacifist/pseuds/LUCKYWARRIORS
Summary: It's rather telling about the capacity of someone's luck when they live past the age of six, despite doctors determining from the get-go that they had just weeks after birth. It's also rather telling when college brings them closer to someone who is entirely the opposite, luck included.Awsten shouldn't be alive. Otto should be doing greater things in life. They're the punchline of something that isn't even a joke, or for that matter, entirely funny. Don't you fret, this is not a sad story.
Relationships: Awsten Knight/Otto Wood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	1. Philosophy Major

**Author's Note:**

  * For [That_Potato_Trash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Potato_Trash/gifts), [just_an_average_human](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_an_average_human/gifts).



> Notes will contain the warnings for every chapter. This is my first multi-chapter Awtto story so please please please be nice to me.
> 
> disclaimer: I own nobody. I know nothing. and vice versa. if there is an issue or stipulation with any of my writing, please comment or come to me directly about it. my wattpad is LUCKYWARRIORS if you need to message me in confidence about something. stay safe, happy reading :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the first chapter: an impersonal use of the r-slur, and a lot of medical related angst. A few descriptions of anxiety-esque feelings that are a little uncomfy.

The first telling thing about Awsten Knight, aside from a too-small body that doesn't work and fucks him over on the daily, is his desire to take college philosophy. No one in their right mind likes philosophy, unless they're a know-it-all or someone who has a weekly existential crisis over something miniscule. Awsten is in both of those categories.

A lot of people, when they meet him and learn this, try to attach his curiosity about the universe and existence to the very popular story his mom always tells about how he went almost twelve minutes without oxygen at birth. He supposes he understands why his mom is so...excitable about it. If _he_ were giving birth to a whole human child and said human child almost died but somehow made it, he'd tell the story too. Still, it does get a little old when the old ladies at their church dote on him every week, calling him "special" and a "miracle." He's not any of those, and the names (even the good ones that aren't being thrown around by assholes who think they own the English language) get to him. He's tried to express this before, how just because he's alive doesn't mean there's anything miraculous about his body functioning as expected as a result of starvation from air, but of course, this is usually received with concern. "Shouldn't you be grateful you're alive?" And he is. He's never been _un_ grateful to be alive. He just hasn't learned the _point_ yet, disability and birth story aside.

Explaining that to anyone who isn't a psychiatrist or his one best friend, is for naught, in his opinion. His own doctors look right past him to his Mom and Dad for input at _his_ appointments, sometimes even to his younger sister. It's not that Gracie doesn't know the answers. It's that his younger sister, someone impressionable and outside of his own head, is looked to over him, over someone who _lives_ those answers, experiences them.

Even then, Gracie _does_ know those answers, impersonally at least - she's known them for a long time. Hell, she's given up most of her childhood to learn how to take care of him, even though he's insisted before (and still does) that she let herself waste time on other things. _Actually enjoyable_ things. Like having a movie marathon at a friends overnight instead of learning how to position him and who to ask for help if he has a seizure in the middle of a grocery store. Like learning how to kiss people at parties instead of learning how to change a catheter. 

She should be learning and soaking up things that normal fourteen-year-olds do, not things that nurses and aides do.

Still, even though Gracie grew up in the "you're a miracle" bubble of thought, she somehow understands him better than anybody else. They do a lot of communicating with just glances, which is convenient, given that the muscles in his jaw won't do their jobs no matter how many strange physical therapy exercises his mom insists on him doing. They help him be less stiff, yes, but they do nothing for athetosis, for the twisting, writhing movements that overtake his limbs and (sometimes) face. But Gracie's learned to read off of him a _real_ expression as opposed to one brought on by the facial 'tremors,' as she refers to them. It only goes to show how close they are, even for siblings. Although, he wonders, it's easy to be that close when your whole life has been about taking care of the other person.

Soon, though, it won't be that way.

He's going to college. He's going to be _living -_ doing things that adults do, accomplishing things that doctors and pathologists have said again and again he never would do. When Awsten Knight was brought into the world, they told the Knights he'd be lucky if he made it to the age of six, that he'd be lucky if he had enough brain functions to grasp more than transient and fleeting thoughts. They told them he'd be lucky if he had any long term memory, if his vision didn't completely run out, if his hearing didn't go. They said he'd never be able to make any real friends, that it would be astronomically difficult because he'd forget their faces and names and wouldn't understand any social graces. But nothing the doctors feared would happen, happened. 

Instead, he _did_ live past the age of six and his brain was enough to get him through six AP classes in high school. His long term memory is one of his greatest tools, and his hearing is still amazing. He makes a best friend in first grade, and they mold together and _stay_ together up through graduation. Hell, they're even going to the same _college._ They did have a point about vision, but both of his parents wear glasses, so it's predictable when he gets a pair of his own. 

So yes, he supposes it's a little bit of a miracle.

His best friend doesn't believe in miracles, but he doesn't deny that Awsten's medical history is full of 'lucky shit.' He's one of the few people that has never, not even once, treated Awsten like a fairytale or a glass dish. Whenever he's with Travis Riddle, he feels like a person, and not just something to glean inspiration from. Besides, he doesn't get what's so inspiring about him existing, and doing everyday people things. 

Travis is also the only one who will make fun of him the way normal friends do, because everyone else who's acquainted with him is afraid of hurting his feelings. It's not abnormal for him to end up in fits of giggles because of Travis, no matter where the humor is directed. It's not like the guy really tries - he's just good at making people laugh. Especially if they're sad. That's one of the first things Awsten noticed about Travis as they became closer, that he can turn anyone's bad day into a really good day just by going out of his way to tell a few harmless jokes and offer a small word of encouragement. He's not the sappy type by any means, but on the flipside, he's definitely not an asshole. His stoic, composed demeanor makes him come off that way, but that's only because his brain and emotions operate on facts and measurements and provable things.

The only time Awsten's ever seen his best friend angry or upset is on his behalf. They met in first grade when Travis threw a rock at someone for calling Awsten a word that neither of them care to repeat. At first, Awsten harbored a secret fear that Travis would be the overprotective one - that he would push other people away from Awsten because of him being 'delicate.' He's not delicate. And Travis saw that off the bat. The normalcy (for lack of a better word) of their friendship welcomed Awsten the way a warm house welcomes someone inside from winter. 

Travis has only been angry for him one other time, but neither of them like to talk about that.

It's easy to be upset for him, he guesses. Even though he's with someone else at all hours of the day - his mom, dad, sister, or Travis - people still constantly find ways to isolate him. At the shopping centers, the strange, almost disgusted looks from other teenagers cling to the back of his neck. The curious gazes of little kids viewing him as a foreign object follow him closely. The whispers of someone in one of the stores muttering the word _retarded_ under their breath never fails to send chills down his spine. Even though he's heard the word used against him hundreds- _thousands_ of times, it still feels like ice is injected through his veins.

He guesses it's easy to be bothered, enraged even, by witnessing it. But throwing rocks at your problems only works when you're a kid, and Awsten isn't a kid anymore.

And then again, there's still good to be found in the everyday, isolating things. Like when the mailman talks to him about something existential for a few minutes before going to the next house, or when the neighbor's four-year-old daughter picks him a flower every day in the summer, or when the pretty grocery clerk smiles a _real_ smile at him like he's the only one in the world. He's not really alone, even though he's singular in his own circumstances, and that's a comfort.

The mailman, neighbor's daughter, and grocery clerk are just a few things he's thinking about on the day he and Travis are set to leave Texas. He's also thinking about how people will look at him when he's rolled through the halls, his friend in tow. He's also thinking about how he's so nervous he wants to throw up. He's also thinking about all the cool shit he'll learn while he's there, but that's a smaller, back-of-his-mind thought. 

His face scrunches up. It's been doing that a lot lately, almost like a grimace, except it's too out of his control for that. His eyes blink shut and his teeth clench and his nose wrinkles and then just like that, it's done. Then his jaw goes slack again, and his eyes wander to the floors of his mostly-empty room. Travis is taking the last box out to their van. _Their_ van. It's actually the Knight's van, but since Travis got a license, he's been driving Awsten places in that van anyway. And now that they're both moving out for while, there won't be any use for it here. 

There's a puddle of drool forming at the neckline of his shirt. The feeling isn't the greatest in the world - wet clothes never are, but the other discomfort about the whole thing is when other people watch his spit fall in tendrils from his mount onto whatever is beneath his chin. When he was younger, he wore bibs, but now he insists on leaving his shirts unprotected. He doesn't want to look like a baby when most people's first perception of him is already that.

There's footsteps down the hall, and then Travis reappears in the doorway. His short friend stares at the expanse of room for a while before flicking his gaze to Awsten. "Ready yet?" His limbs tense up tighter and tighter before flailing around and then crash landing into his lap. He tries to keep his head still as he runs his eyes over the screen in front of him. Spelling everything letter by letter is a chore, but this is the best his mom and dad could afford for his eighteenth birthday after going years without his own words.

 _ **"I don't think so,"**_ the automated voice sounds throughout the room, and Travis nods, expression not changing. "Figured as much," he mutters, going to sit on the edge of Awsten's bed, closer to him. 

_**"It's far."** _

"It is, yeah."

_**"What if something happens?"** _

"It won't. And if it does, I'll be thirty seconds away."

_**"I know that."** _

"And I won't throw any rocks."

The comment is meant to be serious, but it still incites a laugh in Awsten. His voice, his _real_ voice, plops out of him the way an overflow of pudding falls from a spoon. He's never really talked, only made noises that sound mostly like groans and wails. He's aware of how silly he sounds when he laughs, but he can't stop himself. It shakes his whole body into another round of flailing and jerking. 

Travis chuckles along, even though he probably doesn't find any humor in what he said.

"Plus, you'll probably find a group of emos or something and drag me with you."

_**"Shut the hell up. M-C-R is not to be slandered."** _

Conversation, however slow, flows easily between them until the sun is getting close to the edge of the earth from outside Awsten's window. "We should head out soon," Travis says softly. Awsten can feel knots forming in his stomach, and this time the bile really _is_ at the back of his throat. He'll have to leave the only place he's really known for eighteen and a half years. 

He unlocks the brakes to Awsten's wheelchair, and that's when the reality of it all really _does_ set in. Awsten's body twitches and writhes more jerkily than normal, and Travis must be able to tell that he's overthinking again, because without saying a word, he removes one hand from steering to rest steadily on his bony shoulder. He's thankful for the contact - it's keeping him from feeling like he'll float away from their atmosphere. 

They make their goodbyes to Awsten's mom, dad, and sister, but not before a very tearful speech from Mrs. Knight about how proud she is of both of them. Mr. Knight says his affirmations, but remains mostly reserved. Gracie hugs Awsten so tightly that he wonders if his bones will snap. He doesn't cry, but the hot feeling behind his nose like he's _about_ to is there through all of their farewells.

Travis isn't an athletic guy, and the process of getting Awsten into the passenger seat of the van is an absolute bitch, but Awsten being as light and thin as he is helps a small amount. He's maintained a weight of little over a hundred pounds since he was fifteen, the only thing really growing being his height. If he _could_ stand, he'd be a few inches taller than Travis, and his friend has always blamed that on him being "a literal Greek." His beard hair also grows like weeds, and almost every morning since it's started, someone's had to help him shave. _"I don't want to look thirty when I'm twenty,"_ as he puts it.

Once Awsten is all buckled in, Travis does the other bitchy task of getting all of Awsten's hardware strapped down so that they don't have to worry about it getting damaged or replacing it. Once everything's in, they're ready.

It's happening. There's no going back now.

-

When he was a kid, he got so accustomed to adults telling him how hard and bad he'd have it that it comes as a shock when no one in his family gives him that talk before he leaves. As Travis drives down the freeway, West, California bound, he lets the relief wash over him. It feels like people believe in what he's doing instead of jumping to hopeless conclusions. His talker is packed away in the back, but Travis still offers him a grin, like he knows what's Awsten's thinking even though he doesn't have the slightest clue. 

He's thankful for their honesty, but their blatant dread for him quickly became nothing but a tool to increase his anxiety. He doesn't mention it much, but he's been a pretty anxious person from the time he started grade school up until now. Not necessarily paranoid, but certainly an overthinker. And certainly someone who becomes prone to panicking when his thoughts become too loud. It still frustrates him when there's too much stuffed in there that he can't say.

The desert passes by for several hours before they park at a kids playground to eat. He can't chew, so he has Travis hold his mouth shut and tilt his head back just the slightest to swallow small sips of a smoothie, bit by bit until it's gone. When he was still really young, he ate through tubes. Doctors were very careful to warn the Knights against feeding him orally, afraid of choking hazards. Mrs. Knight was the one person who bypassed that rule. 

He had his first fast food with her. It became a tradition to, on Saturdays, drive through somewhere and eat. No matter how many times they tried, the muscles in his jaw were always too slack to mash the food in his mouth, so smoothies were the best alternatives to an actual meal. Well, smoothies with a bunch of supplemental shit mixed in. Travis is fairly well acquainted with how to do that, too.

He knows almost as much as Gracie does. 

And he's going to have to - the college they'll be at is relatively small, and there aren't any on-campus aides that know how to take care of someone with Awsten's level of need. It's the sole caveat of this place, but Awsten's confident that Travis knows what he's doing. He's been learning - not because he has to, but because he wants to - how to tend to his friend since they were both ten years old. Of course, he still had to fill out oodles of paperwork about medical insurance and background checks (and do a year of hands on training at a nursing home) to be cleared at such a young age to be Awsten's caregiver while they're at school.

He doesn't like the word 'caregiver.' It makes Travis feel impersonal to him, which is far from reality.

He finishes feeding Awsten (supplements and all) and they continue driving. They make it to California by the time it's early morning, staying in a hotel room for the evening before the rest of their drive. Awsten can feel his eyes glazing over and his spit coming out more heavily as Travis changes him into nightclothes and helps him brush his teeth. His eyes are shut all the way before he's even fully under the hotel blankets, the ones that smell like cheap detergent and rubber gloves. He lets the scent invade his senses until his thoughts turn off, his stiff muscles still, and he falls asleep.

-

The baby is four pounds. He sleeps in a little crib with a bunch of tubes and machines hooked up to him. He's very small and very thin, and most of the nurses are gossiping about how long he'll last. His mother is holding his hand, but he doesn't grip back. He hasn't kicked, hasn't cried. He's hardly moved at all, but the steady rise and fall of his chest is a gentle reminder that he lived.


	2. Cardboard Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for chapter two: nothing that I think needs to be warned, but please proceed with caution anyway!

Otto Wood, up until the eighth grade, _detested_ running. He hated the way his lungs and legs burned after PE warm-ups, hated how the air whipped at his face, hated how he always felt like he was being chased. He hated being yelled at to _"_ _just go faster!"_ from the teacher and the other kids. He was awful at it.

If you told him that, only a year later, he'd love the sport and be an avid participant, he would have laughed in your face. It's not that he's not active, no - he just preferred other activities, like climbing the old pine trees in the woods on the edge of his parent's property, or riding horseback on hot days. He liked doing his _own_ adventuring, not being told what to do. And especially not being told how awful he was at it.

Of course, then his dad dropped on him the good old _you're-going-to-own-this-farm-someday_ conversation, crushed Otto's childhood with just eleven words: "Your mother and I want you to go to business school." The conversation was far from productive, devolving into an argument about careers in minutes. Otto hadn't known what else to do than run, even though he hated it. _Thought_ he hated it. Maybe he wasn't so bad at running from his problems, though.

He loved the way it had a cathartic effect on him - the hotness in his lungs, the breaking of the air current against his face, the distance he was putting between himself and his father. He was headed for the school, which was little less than a mile away, and before he knew it, he'd made it. He'd gone all that distance doing the thing he thought he liked the _least._ This sent him on a high. Soon he was running every day of the summer before freshman year. And even after school started.

Then he was confronted by the cross country coach. He'd joined, tentative because he was worried he'd lose his love of running as quickly as he'd started loving it in the first place. But being among other people who got the same _relief_ the way he did only increased his desire. He ended up staying in the program all throughout high school, even becoming one of the fastest members. At graduation, he was awarded honors for winning several of the events, patted on the back by the coach, shouted out by the principal. Cross country aside, Otto's always been a good kid in school, without being a complete snob. Both the teachers and the students loved him.

And now, he'll be somewhere entirely different. The four years of recognition for being a good runner and a decent person will have to be completely reconstructed. Or maybe they won't - Otto isn't sure why he likes being liked for what he does so bad. Right now, he's pinning the blame on his dad, who (even after Otto's picked his career path and is moving into the fucking college _today_ ) still has a shred of hope for Otto changing his mind and taking up business. He's still naïve enough to believe that Otto will just suddenly decide that he's made the wrong choice.

It miffs him, but there's a little seed of doubt in him, because what if his dad is right?

He's moving in today. Fuck his dad, there's no going back now. He's going to get his degree in English teaching and he's going to _enjoy_ it. He's going to soak up everything he'll have while he's here and he's going to prove to his dad that success in life doesn't operate solely on the number of dollars in one's pocket.

And he's going to start by regretting taking cross country instead of weight lifting, because _holy shit_ what was he thinking when he was packing the boxes for his room? Otto is rubbing sweat from his forehead by the time he has his boxes on his side of the room he'll be sharing with his new roommate. Supposedly, the guy's not showing up until later that day, making a commute all the way from Washington State. Otto kind of wonders what it would be like to have grown up where it rains all the time, rather than on the outskirts of SoCal. He supposes it must get boring after a while - as much as he hates how dry it gets, he'd kind of hate a grey sky.

He's about to start unpacking his first box, when someone knocks on the doorframe of the room. Turning sharply, he sees a guy around his height, maybe a little shorter, looking incredulous. He blinks. The guy blinks back. Then finally, he asks in a shy-but-somehow-very-direct way, "Can you help me do some lifting? I packed for two, but my roommate can't carry anything."

Otto doesn't know how the hell, "Sure," comes out of him, or where the hell it came from because he's _sick_ of these boxes (almost physically sick), but he starts to feel bad for the guy. Who the fuck just doesn't help their friend move in? Especially if they're roommates. And he said _he_ did the packing. What the hell?

Fueled by just the littlest hint of frustration, he follows the guy out to an old, green van that looks like it'll fall apart if he so much as pushes one of the doors open too hard. "Travis," the guy says as they make their way to the back, where the luggage is. "Otto," Otto answers, and he can't help but notice the classic, blue disability tag hanging on the front. It clicks that the guy- that _Travis'_ roommate simply cannot physically lift anything, and a twinge of guilt starts eating at him for harboring resentment beforehand. 

He and Travis open up the back and each start taking their respective boxes. They make the ascent up the long flight of stairs, but by the time they get to Travis' room, they've already passed one elevator. In fact, it's within twenty feet of his and his roommate's dorm. Otto glances at it like it's done something wrong, even though he and Travis were the ones who chose to take the stairs in the first place.

They exit Travis' dorm as quickly as they enter, placing their boxes right in the middle. It's just enough time for Otto to see who Travis' roommate is - a guy with purple hair cut close to his face and spaghetti limbs that won't keep still. He's strapped into a wheelchair, completely swimming in a large, knit sweater that looks like it was puked up from a thrift store in the 80s.

And, as an afterthought, he's kind of handsome too.

Otto's panting like a dog by the time they've finished - if he thought _his_ boxes were heavy before, they've got nothing on the boxes Travis packed. There's a lot of hardware, like a _lot_ of hardware. Not the kind that machinist majors need, but rather the medical kind. It's kind of overwhelming. One of the things they carry in they have to do together, figure out who's going backwards and forwards with the thing. Otto is informed that it's a standing machine.

It's placed along one of the walls. Otto once again ponders if weight lifting were a better idea. His arms feel like lead and his legs...well, his legs feel fine because they're used to all the moving around. Travis's roommate sends him a wobbly smile, and Otto sends one back, even though he's pretty sure he's so tired he can't move his face. Travis himself must be able to tell, because he orders Otto to sit on the low bed while he gets a cup of water from the bathroom. Otto gulps in down in just a few seconds while Travis has his own.

He doesn't look up, but he can feel the eyes of Travis' roommate boring into him. He'd say he doesn't mind if it weren't for the fact that the guy can't verbally say anything to him, so it ends up feeling like a one-sided staring contest. With Otto as the target. All Otto can do after he's finished his water is hope the guy's eyes leave his shoulder and face and find something else to latch onto. He shuts his own eyes, feeling himself want to sleep right there on the bed. 

While he's in his state of delirium, Travis goes through the pile of boxes until he finds what he's looking for, before stepping over by his roommate. Something clicks on, and Otto thinks he might actually drift off before a harsh, recorded voice says, _**"Hello,"**_ to him and the rest of the room. Otto glances up, pulled from his exhaustion, and peers at the roommate, who's giving him that same lopsided, twitchy grin from before. Otto notices how carefully his eyes are moving over the screen in front of him even while the rest of his body jolts, like an invisible puppeteer is pulling at his useless limbs just to fuck with him. After another moment, the voice says again, _**"My name is Awsten. It's nice to meet you."**_

This time, Otto sends him a real smile, because the staring from before held all the words in the world, and now he gets to hear them get spoken into existence. "Otto," he says. He'd offer a hand but...well, he doesn't suppose the guy can hold his arm still for more than a couple seconds, let alone bend his clawed hand to grasp Otto's. Still, his grin only seems to enlarge in size before a grimace overtakes his features for just a quick second. Otto can only watch and wait patiently as the guy- _Awsten_ continues "typing" with his eyes. He's transfixed by the way the left one glows a different color in the light of his computer screen.

That afterthought from before seems much stronger. He's really, properly handsome. Otto can't find the words to describe how, but that doesn't make it any less true. 

_**"Thanks for helping us move in. Five out of five stars on Y-E-L-P."** _

This statement causes a laugh to bark out of Otto, and soon enough, Awsten is laughing with him. Otto notices how it's a pronounced and loud, and in the same instance slower and almost drippy. Travis just rolls his eyes at the two of them and continues on unpacking boxes. Otto's tempted to ask if he can help out some more, but Travis must be rather good at reading people, because he glances at Otto and mutters, "I've got it."

Otto wants to feel bad for Awsten as he takes ages to type a few short sentences, but Awsten's _funny._ Like actually funny. It doesn't take long before both he and Otto are wheezing at the other's quips. Travis joins in every once in a while, and Otto almost doesn't realize how long he's been in their dorm room until he glances out the window and sees the sky turning purple. _I've been here a while and still need to unpack._

 ** _"Go unpack your shit. We'll see you tomorrow,"_** is what he gets from Awsten, who's giving him his best effort of a you-know-I'm-right expression. It devolves as quickly as it comes, but it gets the point across. Otto finally stands up from the bed, and he feels his knees physically creaking. He almost stumbles, and this even urges a chuckle out of Travis, who's been mostly stone-faced the entire time. "Tomorrow then, I guess," Otto says, and Travis nods at him. "Go, boy," he says, making the voice uncharacteristically high just for the comedic effect. Otto giggles as he exits the room.

But as quickly as he leaves, Otto wants to go back. This was the most fun he's had in a long time, and he doesn't want to give it up just yet. Sighing to himself, he meanders the dead silent hallway back to his room. Walking in, he sees one half of the dorm is already set up. His boxes have been moved by his bed, and a guy with long, shaggy brown hair is laying on his own, reading a magazine.

Yeah, he's definitely late. And even as he's unpacking boxes and making small talk with his _third_ new friend of that day, he can't stop thinking about how Awsten's eyes looked when they zeroed in on him. Maybe it was the light of the computer screen, or the way they were both different colors, or the way his lashes looked long enough to bat Otto if they blinked too hard-

Oh fuck.

Oh shit. 

It's definitely definitely _definitely_ not for that reason, but Otto's determined to keep that little truth hidden and suppressed for as long as he can.

-

The first few weeks, the baby is completely intubated. There's a plethora of tests and blood draws and cleanings and screenings and pokings and proddings that follow. Progress is slow, but after two months of waiting for the other shoe to drop, for more complications to pop up out of nowhere, the family is finally told they can take him home.

It doesn't come without a grave prognosis from the head doctor, who sits the parents down in leather chairs and delivers news that no one in the room wants to believe. "He likely only has six years." It yanks an angry scoff out of the father, who's a doctor himself, but he doesn't deny the truth of the statement. The mother freezes with her baby in her arms. It can't be possible, she thinks as the man delivers them more and more tragedies that, unbeknownst to any of them, will never happen.


End file.
